


save the last dance for me

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [10]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, CPTSD, Canonical Character Death, Dancing, Dissociation, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, cactus being a good big bro, it's only sad if you live in a post-hoT world, maybe perhaps loading on the feels train merhaps, oblivious salad commander being very oblivious and salad-y, set post lws5ep2, sylvari empathy, takes place both then and after s1 like a dual screen, there are some funny bits so you can laugh and definitely not cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: "Do you think he would still love me?""Yes," says Canach.Roza glances at him. "I am broken," he says softly.~In another time, Roza seeshismarshal dance with someone, and certainly does not get jealous.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars)
Series: roza [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35





	save the last dance for me

**Author's Note:**

> will contain spoilers up til and including episode 2 of season 5!! otherwise i hope u enjoy and remain very un-sad ;3;

“Are you leaving, Canach?” Roza’s voice rings out from behind him, and he stops halfway to the exit at the end of the Hall.

“I have to be getting back to my affairs,” he answers, turning around. The Eye of the North is a… delightful place to be in, despite the wretched cold and the lack of anything to do and the constant mooning of the Crystal Bloom and the creepy golden charr who keeps eyeing him and Roza in what Canach is trying to tell himself is not a lascivious way. Yes, he will _definitely_ miss it.

Roza jogs up to him, care in his footsteps. He is holding a small glass vase, fingers wrapped delicately around its neck. Inside it sits a tiny white winter lily, snipped off its stem. Canach had spotted him earlier chatting with one of the gardeners—he’s either searching for components for some arcane endeavor, or he’s decided to finally embrace his tree-hugging side and spruce up the place.

Canach frowns as he nears. “Unless you’re about to _order_ me to stay here, that is, in which case I would very much like to see you try.”

He crosses his arms. Roza, however, only rolls his eyes. “I doubt you’d listen,” he says with a delicate wave of his free hand. “No, I just wanted to see you off. Maybe kiss you on the cheek and give you a fond familial hug of farewell.”

“ _Very_ funny. You’re a whole circus’s worth of laughter.” Even saying so, Canach lets his arms fall. “Fine. You can get one hug, if you truly need one.”

Roza laughs, rudely. “I don’t want to hug _you_ ,” he says.

“Thorns, spend long enough in your company and I’m reminded of why I want to impale you,” Canach mutters with a scowl.

Roza smiles at him. “Very well, Brother dear. I suppose, if _you_ want—”

He is cut off as the tall doors to the Hall of Monuments creak open. With a gust of icy wind and the faint clink of crystals, Caithe steps into the Atrium.

Roza’s good mood vanishes into the air like a hot breath in the mountain range. Even Canach is able to feel the plummet, and he winces, stepping away. Roza doesn’t stop him, attention drawn to the crystal sylvari now just noticing them.

Caithe smiles hesitantly. Canach pretends he’s psychic and tries to push, _Don’t start shit with Roza, go away, go away_ towards her as forcefully as he can, but shockingly, it doesn’t seem to work. She all but tiptoes over, her stride picking up pace as she nears. He sighs inwardly.

It’s not that _he_ minds Caithe. He… tolerates her, and he suspects she likewise has a similar opinion of him. For a firstborn, she is about what he expects. For a secondborn, he is… well, that doesn’t matter. They never really had time nor opportunity to rub elbows with each other. Roza, however, has never seemed to feel quite so neutral about her.

“Commander.” She glances him up and down. “I heard you got injured, but… you’re looking rather well.”

“What do you want?” Roza says flatly. His fingers tighten around the vase.

“Really? Do you want to do this here, with Aurene so close?” Caithe’s lips purse as his expression slides into impassivity. “Immaturity isn’t a good look on you.”

“And ignoring everything that’s happened to pretend that you’re the bigger person isn’t a good look on _you_ , but it seems as if it’s the only one you have.”

Oh, Canach is staying _out_ of this. He slowly backs away, trying not to attract their attention. Thankfully, neither of them give him much notice, their eyes only fixed on each other. Canach has half a mind to record them just to show to Taimi later on. It’s been a while since they’ve caught each other up on gossip.

“Can we not?” Caithe’s voice hardens by a fraction. “Is a moment of peace between the two of us too much to ask for?”

“Trying to force everyone to kiss and make up again, Caithe?” Roza catches her tone and returns it.

“Not everyone.” For a moment, her voice quietens. “Just you and I.”

Roza barks out a laugh. The vase shakes. “Just a little chat, and everything will go back to being just cherry, is that what you think? That’s not how it works.”

“It could be, if you weren’t so allergic to reconciliation.” Her eyes narrow. “Just once, could you try to be kind and understanding? Other people are fighting battles you know nothing about.”

“I _wish_ I knew nothing about them, Caithe! But you won’t stop harping on about your problems whenever we meet!”

 _Aaand_ they're beginning to shout. Canach scuttles further away, and a glance around tells him he isn’t the only one. Everyone else in the atrium is doing a combination of both pretending the two of them aren’t yelling at each other and giving them a progressively wider berth. Canach is certain he catches one of the asura recording.

“Maybe I just want someone to sympathise with how I feel! Maybe I just want my little brother—”

“Don’t call me that,” Roza interrupts, voice sharp.

“—to support me and realize how much of a completely insensitive _prick_ he is every time I try and ask him for help!”

“You can’t force someone to care about you, Caithe.” Roza’s eyes glitter darkly. For a moment it seems as if he’s going to retract the statement, but then he shakes his head, clenching his jaw.

“Ouch,” Canach hears someone mutter. He thinks it’s the asura.

Caithe’s gaze shines. “You are so cruel sometimes,” she says, and her voice drops with his. “But I already knew that walking into this room. Fine, don’t care about me. I can’t make you do anything, no matter how much I wish it. But is it that hard for you to be kind regardless? Is it truly asking too much for you to simply try?”

Roza’s face is impassive as he stares at her. After a short pause, he says, “You say that as if you do not arm yourself with barbed flowers every time we speak. Someone has to take the low road, Caithe, but it isn’t always me.”

Caithe inhales deeply, closing her eyes. Roza watches her carefully.

She opens them. “Trahearne wouldn’t want us to fight,” she says, almost tentatively.

Laxness splinters Roza’s expression, and then it hardens into stone. “Don’t,” he hisses in a low voice.

She shakes her head. “Roza, _please_. He cared about us, both of us. Why can’t we be like that again?”

“We cannot simply retreat into the past when we cannot deal with the present.” Roza’s voice trembles, just barely. Contrarily, his grip around the vase tightens near-painfully. “Don’t put me in this position of minding you as well as myself, Caithe. I can’t.”

“He would be proud that you’re holding all this together, can't you see?” Caithe steps forwards, and Roza jerks back as if the air around her is poison. “But it doesn’t have to just be you. We could bear each other’s burdens. Trahearne would want us to help each other.”

“Trahearne is _dead!_ ” Roza snaps. The last word is jagged, torn from the rest. 

Caithe’s expression creases. When she speaks, her voice has a hint of despair in it, as if she has been reduced to her last resort. “He was in love with you, you know,” she says.

There is utter silence.

It is broken by the sound of shattering glass as the vase Roza has been clutching crashes to the ground.

“He… what?” he whispers, shocked.

Caithe scans his expression. A beat too late, she seems to regret her words. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, a voice resonates through the room.

“ _That’s enough, both of you_.” Aurene’s tone is firm. “ _I am not going to sit here and be silent while you tear each other to shreds._ _Stop._ ”

Roza barely reacts, still stunned. Caithe draws back, and for a moment her eyes drift hazily, as if she is listening to a voice that only she can hear. She nods faintly, then turns her back and walks away.

 _Coward_ , Canach wants to bite out at her retreating form. But he knows that is not fair. Instead he crosses the room—Roza doesn’t so much as flinch as he walks past—marching over to the asura he had spotted earlier. She is having a dialogue with… _that_ charr in a rapid undertone.

“Really, I’ll pay any price.” He adjusts his monocle, dipping his head. “You don’t understand—the passion! The sheer, raw emotion! The post-mortem confession of a love long thought lost! Oh, it will fuel a novel worth dying for. That recording… truly… is priceless.”

“Huh.” The asura scratches her chin. “Priceless, you say?”

“Double whatever the furball offers,” Canach interrupts.

The charr in question startles, seemingly just noticing him. “Hey!” he says, affronted.

The asura looks Canach up and down. “I’m listening, celery stalk.”

“You would truly use someone else’s misery for your own gains?” He frowns at the charr in disbelief. “That’s despicable.”

The charr huffs. “Now, now, those are very harsh words, good ser. But I’m not here to validate myself to critics. A hundred gold pieces.”

The asura’s eyebrows raise. “ _Well_ —”

“Two hundred.” Canach stares the charr down.

He puffs air out of his muzzle. “… advantage of a starving artist, really, life is unfair,” he mumbles under his breath. “Fine, fine. Five hundred.”

Canach pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to voice the litany of curses that wriggle through his brain at that. Unfortunately, he is a sylvari of his word. Damn him.

“A thousand,” he grunts, extremely begrudgingly. Roza _owes_ him for this.

The asura looks at the charr expectantly. He makes a big show of scrunching his eyebrows, wrinkling his nose, and overall making a rather wide variety of expressions Canach didn’t know were even physically possible. Finally, his shoulders slump.

“Fine, take it.” He heaves a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s not like he’s _my_ muse, or anything. No, no.”

“You’re right about that,” Canach says, and digs through his coin purses. He gives two of them to the asura, who weighs them in her hand with a thoughtful expression before nodding and handing him a small black recording device.

“Thank you.” Canach bows, puts it on the ground, and steps on it.

The charr gasps. He grinds his heel.

After ensuring the device is thoroughly destroyed, Canach scoops up what’s remaining and pockets it—he is a celery stalk of little trust. “Pleasure doing business,” he says to the gaping asura, and walks away.

Roza is still standing stock-still in the middle of the room like a golem with its wires crossed. Canach sighs quietly. He steps in front of him, blocking his vision. It earns him a distracted shift of black eyes.

“Little brother,” he says, half to see if it will get a more animated response. Roza’s gaze jitters upwards, but he doesn’t otherwise react.

Canach’s eyelids fall. “Come on, Roza,” he says in a low tone. “Let us fetch ourselves some privacy. People are staring.”

“I…” Roza’s voice is hoarse. He swallows. “Aurene told me… that I should go sit in my room.”

“She is a dragon of splendid ideas.” Canach splays a hand behind his shoulder, slowly guiding him forwards. To his relief, Roza lets himself be led, walking in pace alongside him. His steps are steady, if aimless.

“You owe me a thousand gold,” Canach informs him about halfway there.

Roza looks at him. His eyes are still lost. “I… don’t have that much money.”

Canach sighs. “Never mind, then,” he mutters. His grip on his shoulder tightens minutely.

Roza stops him at the entrance to his room. His face is pinched, and his hand when it pushes Canach’s away is trembling.

“Canach,” he says, “I think I might start crying.”

“Oh,” says Canach.

Roza closes his eyes. Swallows. “You can leave if you want,” he mutters, and already his voice is beginning to shake. “I… understand completely.”

Canach waits until his eyes open, although they do not meet his. He steps closer.

“I am not Caithe,” he says.

~*~

Roza thinks that human parties may not be so bad after all.

Certainly they are nothing like the ones in the Grove, a fact which he will remain endlessly thankful for. He _knew_ those weren’t normal. They are nothing like the norn’s meets either, and though he has never been to an asuran or charr gathering, he suspects those are equally different. Human parties seem to involve a moderate amount of alcohol, a moderate amount of boasting, a moderate amount of liveliness, and absolutely no saplings running around asking inane questions like why dandelions are yellow. Really, the mellowness is something of a relief.

Roza shifts against the wall, glancing down as he feels the sway of fabric against his legs. One of his new… friends, the beautiful human Lady Kasmeer Meade—Roza is quite appreciative of her style and poise, similar as it is to his, and he thinks he may grow to like her quite a bit—has put him in a strange, sheer white dress of some sort. Roza had pointed out that it was a bit like putting powder on a snowman, but she had giggled and told him that he “looked sexy” (which had prompted Roza to explain, somewhat confusedly if straightforwardly, that he wasn’t aiming to have sex with anyone, and that he frankly found the notion a little distressing, but she had simply rolled her eyes and smiled at him with a strange expression he would later come to recognize as fondness). It is a lot more… open than what he is used to wearing, the lack of sleeves being the biggest difference, but he finds he doesn’t mind. Lion’s Arch is in a temperate area, centralized as it is. He isn’t cold.

Although, strangely, this ballroom seems to have a few cool spots.

He watches as a mustachioed human man grasps Trahearne’s arm, thanking him heartily for something Roza cannot hear. The temperature around him drops again, and he shoots a frown at the nearest window. How odd.

The human is only seemingly the hundredth person to go up to Trahearne this evening, either to thank him for doing his part in the restoration of the city or to simply to meet him. Roza is not surprised. The marshal is… He is a wonder, and no matter how tired he must be because of all of his work, he is patient with every single person who shakes his hand. He even smiles at them all—Roza does not understand how he can do it.

A small orange petal of a sylvari approaches him next. Even across the room, Roza can _feel_ her gush. Trahearne smiles at her, laughing gently at something she says.

The temperature suddenly sinks several degrees. Curious.

The sylvari gently tugs at his hand, glancing behind her where people are swaying to the tune of human musicians. Roza raises a derisive eyebrow. _He isn’t going to dance with you_ , he wants to scoff at her. Trahearne is much too shy to dance, much less go around cavorting with some random gaudy blossom of a sapling.

The marshal looks hesitant, and Roza relaxes against the wall, his slight smile returning. Of course he is right. He knows…

The sapling laughs, tilting her head. Trahearne sighs, but then it turns into a warm sound, and he follows her to the dance floor.

Roza stares after them, smile gone. What?

He watches as they slowly begin to sway to the music. There is some hot, tight feeling in his chest, at odds with the air around him that he isn’t even paying attention to anymore. As the song warbles along, the feeling only gets hotter, rising until it bubbles.

Roza is stalking over before he even has time to process what it could mean.

“I have to borrow Trahearne for a moment,” he says, fixing the sapling with an unflinching stare. They both glance at him, coming to a slow halt.

“Oh.” She shrinks away from him slightly, which means she presses into Trahearne. Roza’s stare turns frosty.

“Commander, can it not wait a song?” Trahearne’s tone is gentle, which makes Roza’s chest lose some of its tightness. However, a soothing brush of his hand over the sapling’s arm reveals that the gentleness is not directed towards _him_ , and the hot, boiling feeling comes back with a vengeance.

“I don’t think it can,” Roza replies, trying his best not to grit his teeth. Who does this shrinking violet think she is, and why is she acting as if Trahearne has to _protect_ her? Can she not stand up for herself?

“You’re… you’re the Pact commander.” She speaks up. She takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Lovely.” Roza’s voice is flat. “Conversely, I have no idea who you are.”

“Commander, this is Valiant Ysbail.” Trahearne’s tone is more even when he addresses him. “She is newly bloomed this year. Her Wyld Hunt was to aid in restoring Lion’s Arch, and I was just in the middle of taking her through a victory dance.”

There it is again: _Commander_. The added layer of formality bristles, Roza is loathe to admit. He crosses his arms.

“Not really a Valiant anymore, then.” His gaze bores into hers. “If your Wyld Hunt is complete, then what is your purpose?”

She looks shocked, then doubtful. “I…”

“Commander.” Trahearne’s voice has a hint of sternness to it. Roza glances up at him, somewhat surprised. “If you truly do have business with me, I am certain it can wait a few minutes. Unless it was so urgent it necessitated this interruption?”

Roza’s mouth opens and then closes. What…? He…

“Please, I only wished to dance with Firstborn Trahearne,” the sapling blurts. “I’m sure whatever you want can wait until after.”

Roza jerks to glare at her, noticing her shiver once more as their gazes meet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes it is because the air around them is freezing. “I suppose this is the highlight of your pointless little life, then,” he says, words biting out of the hot thing in his chest. “Hunt-less and title-less, there isn’t much else you will ever amount to.”

“Commander, that is _enough_.” Trahearne’s voice cuts through him like he is hot butter. It is enough to startle Roza into looking at him, and when he does _he_ very nearly shrinks back. He has never seen that glare before. But… he…

He is jostled by the sapling, in the process of pushing away from Trahearne. She looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

“What they say about you is true. You really are wretched,” she says, before she shoulders past him. He thinks he hears a sob as she stalks away.

Roza stands there for a moment, conflicted and confused. He had made her… cry? Had he meant to? He doesn’t…

He drags his gaze back to Trahearne, but doesn’t dare raise it to his eyes. Something weighs it down, making him stare forwards at his chest. Why did he do that? He… isn’t that person anymore. He…

“Was that truly necessary?” Trahearne speaks sharply. Roza jerks up to meet his eyes, and finds them stern and unyielding. His mouth dries.

“I…”

Trahearne waves his hand, and the air around them warms. Roza’s stomach sinks as he recognizes the feeling of his own magic being dispelled. He had inadvertently caused the cold spots from… what, lack of control? _Him?_

Trahearne shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I cannot say I welcome it. I am disappointed, Commander. I thought that…”

He trails off and sighs. _No,_ Roza wants to say, but his vocal chords have frozen. He wants to reach up, put his hand on Trahearne’s shoulder, perhaps defend himself. He finds that he cannot.

Trahearne sighs. “We will meet later, Roza. To discuss whatever it is you wanted to talk about as well as perhaps… matters of conduct.” His golden eyes are touched with regret, and it squeezes at something in Roza’s chest. “And think of apologizing to that poor girl. She has done you no harm.”

The fact that he is finally calling him by his name only for it to be in a reprimand, of all things, strikes Roza deeper than he would like. He touches a hand to his breast, curling his fingers as if he can pull this strange, gaping sensation shut so it will seal and disappear. It does not work.

Trahearne gives him one last, indecipherable look before he moves away. Roza is left standing there, feeling as if he has just been shorn in two.

He… needs to sit down.

He leaves the dance floor to sit on nearby bench, and then stays there, curling his legs up next to him. His thoughts are swirling. Disappointed? Trahearne is disappointed in him? And what of what the sapling had said? She had called him… wretched.

The evening moves along around him, but to Roza it is all dimmed. The beautiful lights and colourful bodies are a haze, the music is faint, like it is coming from another room. The other sylvari present are distant, as if he is disconnected from the Dream. He feels…

He doesn’t know what he feels.

… Wretched?

He breathes mist into the air in front of him, and inhales it when it is warm again. His magic obeys him. No more drops in temperature are forthcoming.

Do people truly say that of him?

He does it again, trying to maintain a cloud. He is no elementalist, however, and it soon dissipates.

Does Trahearne think he is wretched?

Roza is struck with the urge to know, all of a sudden. And he thinks it has been long enough, although he is not certain. He rises, seeking out the marshal amidst the gathering of people.

He finds him soon enough—of course he does, Trahearne’s heart is golden as the sun and Roza would like to think he projects it empathetically at all times, although he knows that is not physically possible. He makes his way over with a hesitant step.

He stops some ways away, not least because Trahearne is speaking to someone. The thought of interrupting them and earning himself another reprimanding stare lances a cold spear through Roza’s stomach, so he hovers nearby in Trahearne’s line of vision, waiting to be approached.

His fingers dig into his palms, leaving light gold imprints when he relaxes them. He… does not know how to feel about being scolded like a sapling, besides humiliated. But something is different, something makes it strange—Trahearne isn’t his mentor anymore. Trahearne is… he is…

Heading Roza’s way. He clasps his hands behind his back, steadying his stance. He dips into a deep nod of deferral as Trahearne nears, only straightening when he hears a soft, “At ease.” He can fall back on formality, if nothing else. The tactic had always served him well in the Vigil, where distancing was a safety net.

Trahearne is giving him the strangest look. Roza doesn’t know how to interpret it, so he only stays silent, waiting.

“Shall we head to somewhere more private?” Trahearne says at last. “Come, Commander.”

Roza glides into step behind him easily, used to his place as his second-in-command. They wade through the music and the people, past the lights and the decorations. Roza’s eyes are on Trahearne, the elegant shift of his shoulders, the soft purple pulse just barely beginning to peek past his ferns. It is almost hypnotic, watching its faint ebb and flow. Trahearne feels… gentle, as he always does. Roza, unwillingly a little more on the sensitive side of their empathy, usually finds it soothing. Right now, he is using it as an anchoring point.

“I think here will do.” Trahearne stops, glancing at their surroundings. They are in a hallway off the main one leading to the ballroom, and no one is within earshot. No other sylvari are nearby either, which helps clear Roza’s mind somewhat.

“The human garb suits you.” Trahearne speaks up, nodding at him with a small smile. Roza glances down at himself automatically. “Your friend… Lady Kasmeer, was it? She has an eye for styling.”

Roza slips his fingers into the dress’s deep neckline, watching as their shape breaks the smoothness of the fabric. “Yes,” he agrees. “I don’t know if you can tell, but it is somewhat see-through. I thought the colour was redundant at first, but I think I have grown to like it.”

“Yes, it… suits you,” Trahearne repeats, then clears his throat. Roza glances up at him, brow knitting. But then their eyes meet, and he is hit with a pulse of shame. His hands fall lax. He folds them together, dropping his head.

“Right,” Trahearne says softly, as if just to himself. Then, louder, “Now, would you mind telling me why you just about bit that poor sapling’s head off earlier this evening?”

Roza winces. “I… did not mean to,” he replies carefully. He focuses on the details of Trahearne’s outfit. He is in more formal ferns, having dressed up for the occasion as his station befits. It is a strange sight, but… not an unwelcome one.

“Not meaning to does not change the outcome of what has already transpired, nor does it undo the damage that has been done.” Trahearne sighs quietly. Roza winces. He can feel his disappointment lapping at him like a small wave. It is not overly prominent, but it is there.

“I know,” he says. He ignores the strange constriction in his chest at being told off like this. It is like Syska all over again—and even thinking about that still stings—except there is no mesmer illusion to soften the blow. “I… regret my actions. Marshal.”

He throws the title in there at the last second, and it does help a little in the distance that it gives. Roza swallows. Now he is the one hiding behind titles. But if he did not, he thinks that perhaps he would break, just a little.

Trahearne straightens minutely. “Do you regret your words, or do you regret the outcome they caused, Commander?” he asks.

Roza eyes flit to the side as he considers his answer. He will not lie to Trahearne, even if that means he will sink from his favour.

Wretched.

Do people truly call him that?

Is that what he is?

“Both,” he replies. “Although more the latter, I will admit. Sir.”

His voice has done an odd thing, going hoarse as if it is as sheer as his dress. Roza keeps his eyes firmly averted. If he does not look into Trahearne’s, he will not see whatever judgment is in them to condemn him.

“I see.” Trahearne sighs, and the sound carves into him like the softest scythe. “Well, remorse cannot be forced. I must admit that I had hoped by now that you would have grown out of your sharp tongue, but… ah, well. Sometimes old habits can be hard to fully shake.”

Unprompted, Roza’s eyes heat. He only nods mutely, keeping his head down as he tries to blink them cool.

“Commander.” Trahearne’s voice gentles. “I only reprimand you because I wish to nurture the potential I see in you. A wound itches most before it heals.”

Because now Roza is still a wretched thing. Now he has rumours being whispered about him and saplings he has never met who flinch away from him and Trahearne’s disapproval, the heaviest weight, bound to him like an anchor.

He nods again, not trusting himself to speak. Is kindness truly forged like this, then? Must he be heated up and have the rough edges of himself struck by the world until they are bludgeoned into smoothness?

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to start by offering Ysbail an apology,” Trahearne says after a short silence.

Roza nods, automatically filtering out the shame he feels at being taught what to do as if he is fresh from the nursery. He doubts apologizing will help much, but… he does truly feel a little badly. He can recognize when he has done wrong. The least he can do is acknowledge it, even if it bites at his pride to do so.

And it isn’t as if one small apology is going to change the saplings’ whispers. If he is a wound, Roza doubts he will get to the healing stage any time soon.

“You are not usually this quiet.” Trahearne’s head moves in his periphery, but Roza still has his gaze firmly fixed downwards. “Was there a reason you snapped at her? Was something upsetting you?”

Roza begins to shake his head, then pauses, conflicted. No, nothing was upsetting him, exactly. But there _had_ been… something. He simply does not know what it was.

“Please speak to me,” Trahearne says quietly.

“Marshal,” Roza returns, responding to him as if the statement is an order. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Yes, there was something. But nothing important.”

Trahearne bends his head, trying to catch his gaze. “What was it?”

Roza thinks back. “I felt a bit… odd,” he says tentatively.

“Odd?”

“Hot,” Roza clarifies. “In here.” He touches his chest. “And constricted, as if I couldn’t breathe. And I do not know _why_ I was frosting the air around myself without meaning to. It’s quite embarrassing, to tell the truth.”

Trahearne lets out a soft, quick exhale, and—he is so close, it is hard to keep staring down like this—Roza looks up automatically. Trahearne’s eyes widen by a fraction. He has the oddest expression on his face, as if he is caught between the tail end of relief and the beginning of realization.

“I see,” he says in a low tone Roza does not quite know how to read.

His gaze jitters to the side. “That is all, Marshal.”

“I forget how young you are, sometimes,” Trahearne breathes.

Roza flinches. “I try my best despite that, Marshal,” he manages before he can turn that statement over too many times in his mind and let it flay his voice from him.

“No, of course you do.” Trahearne reaches out to him, then pauses as Roza leans away. He slowly withdraws his hand. “I didn’t mean… That is to say, I am constantly reminded that there are so many things you do not yet know. Like what certain emotions feel like.”

“Constantly,” Roza repeats.

“Not… constantly. I am—misspeaking.” Trahearne rubs the back of his neck. “Forgive me. I do not mean to offend you. You are more than fit to be in your position, Commander. I could not ask for a better second.”

Roza doubts that is true. “The Vigil trained me well as a soldier,” he says, instead of asking whether Trahearne thinks he is wretched, or whether he is hoping that too will fade away with time.

“You do not have to be a soldier so often.” Trahearne’s voice softens somewhat. “Why don’t you go and enjoy the party? There is still much merriment to be had, and I think the both of us are deserving of a break.”

“You are,” Roza agrees. “I… I am sorry. I do not wish to go back in and bring the mood down with me.” Who knows what the other sylvari will say if he goes back feeling as if he has been run over by a dolyak? Not pleasant things, that is for sure. He does not need another string of whispers wondering if he is going to fall to Nightmare trailing him.

Trahearne begins to frown. “Roza,” he says.

Roza stares at him. All at once, shame and mortification thrum through his body, making his spine tingle and his hands turn numb. That is what his name is good for. A reprimand. A reminder that he cannot truly be—that he is not good enough for—that he—

“I’m sorry,” he repeats hoarsely, at a loss for anything else to say. “I… hope you enjoy your evening, Marshal.”

“Roza.” Trahearne’s expression falls. “Wait, please—”

Roza breaks away from him, easily ducking under his outstretched hand and slipping past him. When he reaches for his magic, it is strong and waiting for him. His shadow rises from the floor, enveloping him until it has covered the last speck of white. He sinks into its embrace and lets it pull him away.

~*~

Canach has only ever seen Roza cry once before. Now, it is because of the same man, even if indirectly so. For a second, ever so brief and fleeting, he loathes Trahearne for it. Then the feeling passes. He cannot blame the firstborn for dying.

Roza, folded on the ground next to him, moves his head. Considering how still he has been sitting, even just the small movement is jarring. “I’m sorry I’m crying,” he says quietly, as if reading his thoughts.

Canach shakes his head. “Of all the things one should apologize for, I believe that ranks as the least worthy,” he says. “Besides, anyone else would crumple underneath the weight you bear on your shoulders. I think you are allowed to have a moment to ease it off.”

Roza looks at him. His cheeks are wet, but he has done absolutely nothing to clean them. Canach watches as another tear slips down and he doesn’t so much as blink at it.

“Trahearne wouldn’t have crumpled,” he says. His voice is distant.

Canach frowns. “Trahearne had you.”

That splits Roza’s blank expression with a pained smile. He breathes out something that might have been a laugh, had he breath in his chest. “Thorns, I don’t even know why,” he says, glancing down. “I don’t even know why he would be… why he would have feelings for me. I’ve turned it over in my mind this whole time and I just can’t figure it out.”

Canach politely doesn’t point out that in the last moment the two of them had together, it had been more than obvious to everyone around them that _something_ , at least, was going on. As a different way of breaching the same subject, he asks, “Didn’t you have any clue?”

Roza shrugs one shoulder. “I… always suspected he was fond of me, though I had no reference point at the time,” he says. “When I watched him through the Scrying Pool, I realized that perhaps it... wasn’t as a friend.” He frowns, then looks down. “But it is difficult to figure out what that even means, Canach. I don’t know how it works. Any of it.”

Not surprising. Roza is a distant person by nature, and young sylvari tend to have odd views about love in the first place. Canach says, however, “I knew you were a virgin.”

That startles a laugh out of Roza, long and choked. “Oh, by the Tree,” he says, clutching his stomach, “You’re going to hurt me if you make me laugh like this. I feel like my insides are out, with all of this bodily fluid everywhere.”

“Then put them back in.” Canach waits until his smile fades, then adds, “I dipped into the Scrying Pool myself while I had Caladbolg, and saw that ‘experimental phase’ you had with your outfits. You were trying to kill the poor bastard, you whore.”

That makes Roza laughs again, longer, and this time it is interrupted by a coughing fit. “Cana—” he tries to say, and his voice is broken by a giggle. Canach watches him.

“And what was with all the smouldering stares and suggestive comments? ‘Oh, Trahearne, won’t you come and study _necromancy_ with me? I’ll show you my… _shroud_ if you show me yours.’”

“St—” Roza covers his mouth with a hand, his smile wide beneath it. He ducks his head into his arm, and Canach can hear him trying to stifle his laughter.

He eases himself back and waits, this time giving Roza time to lengthen his breaths and loosen his shoulders. He finally gathers himself with a sigh, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he murmurs. “And… thank you.” He gives a small smile.

“What can I say? I’m a proactive celery stalk,” Canach returns.

Roza chuckles, then hums consideringly. “I think you are more like a… one of those plants in Elona. A cactus, I think it was. But anyways.”

They sit quietly for a moment. Roza gazes off in the distance, absently fixated on a small violet in the corner of the room. After a minute, he ventures, “Do you think he would still love me?”

“Yes,” says Canach. “Even more than before.”

Roza glances at him. “I am broken,” he says softly.

Canach frowns. “You are grown. You are much stronger than the sapling I met years ago, who was yet still new to the world. We are tempered by our experiences.”

Roza shakes his head. “Then I still do not understand how he could have possibly had… feelings for me. You don’t know how I used to be. I was selfish, insensitive, immature—even cruel, at times. How could he fall in love with that?”

“You are asking yourself the wrong question.” Canach leans towards him. “You say you were all these things? In the past?”

“In the past.” Roza dips his head in a nod. “I have tried to better myself. Within reason.”

“Then imagine what he would think of you now,” says Canach.

Roza’s expression loosens. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Canach gives him a moment, then continues. “How about we use myself as an example. Was I—”

“I,” Roza holds up a hand as he interrupts, “am _not_ in love with you.”

“Oh, don’t be _disgusting_.” Canach rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply _that_. You know what, never mind. Here I was, foolishly trying to help you.”

“You are like a,” Roza makes a considering face, “distant cousin to me. Many times removed, on my uncle’s side. Thrice.”

“You have no idea how utterly idiotic you sound.”

“ _Very_ distant. We are practically strangers.”

“Do you even know how family structures work? Do you even know what a cousin _is?_ ”

Roza gives him an affronted look. “I know what a cousin is.”

“You didn't even know what a _cactus_ was.”

“Four times removed,” Roza says.

Canach rolls his eyes again. “That’s not how it works.”

“I think I—” Roza is cut off by a small coughing fit. Evidently, sitting stock still and crying silently for half an hour doesn’t do wonders for clearing one’s airways.

“Excuse me.” He clears his throat delicately. Canach, who has been spending perhaps a disrespectful amount of time spying on his past, begins to laugh.

Roza frowns. “What?”

“The…” Canach gestures. “Throat-clearing. Ah. Thorns, I know I said it before, but poor bastard.”

Roza stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

That makes Canach laugh again, albeit more rudely. “You really are the same, aren’t you? Roza, my dear, I can guarantee you Trahearne would still be in love with you.”

Roza gapes at him, and then, to his delight, his cheeks darken. “I,” he says, and looks away.

Canach sees his opportunity and seizes it. “He probably wrote _poems_ about you,” he says. “To read to himself. At night. To accompany other thoughts.”

Roza’s eyes widen. “You’re so immature,” he mumbles, even as he flushes further. Canach sees the faintest pulse of lavender, just for a second, and grins.

“I can’t believe I get to tease you about a crush,” he says. “And _after_ he’s dead.”

“You are awful,” Roza groans, although he doesn’t sound upset. Then, quieter, “It wasn’t just a crush.”

Canach’s expression sobers. “I know, Roza,” he says, and he puts an arm around narrow shoulders and lets them draw close to him. “I know.”

~*~

Roza thinks he enjoys the aftermath of a party more than the party itself.

There is a certain comfort in the silence. As Roza waits in the shadows for the attendants to finish cleaning up, occasionally helping them with an unseen hand, he finds he is much more at ease than he had been all evening. He is more drawn to the ending of the merrymaking than the middle of it, he thinks. There is perhaps more beauty to be found in the last note of a song than there is in the melody leading up to it.

He glances down at the small flower in his hand and rolls its stem between his fingers. _It matches your eyes_ , Ysbail had said. But his eyes are black, and the flower is a beautiful, vibrant shade of fuchsia.

Still, he will keep it. No one has ever given him a flower before. He does not know if it is a normal thing to give to someone after they mumble their way through an awkward apology directed at your feet, but he will tell himself, at least for tonight, that it is not, and that he is special. Just tonight, so no one will harp on about how self-centered he is come morning when he still has it tucked into his tunic.

Perhaps some saplings aren’t that bad.

Roza waits until the last person leaves the room before he steps out of the shadows, his glow casting a light that is faint but just about enough to see in front of him. He tucks the flower behind his ear after unsuccessfully trying to stick it into his dress, then slowly walks to the dance floor.

He thinks about Trahearne, how he had moved when he had danced. Roza is much closer to Ysbail’s height than his, but his eyes had not been on her.

Unevenly, awkwardly, he tries to imitate the steps. After a minute he realizes he needs a rhythm, and so he thinks of a song he had liked from the evening and tries to hum its main melody. He sways slowly and disjointedly, not knowing what he is doing nor how to do it. He wishes Trahearne were here to… He wishes someone were here to teach him.

“It’s much easier if you try with a partner,” a quiet voice says from the shadows.

Roza whirls around, hands clasped to his chest in a very sapling-in-distress manner he will never admit to later. “Trahearne?” he gasps as the firstborn steps into view. “What are you doing here?”

Part of him, as much as he hates it, is… concerned… that he is going to get told off again. So when Trahearne approaches him, he takes an unwitting step back.

Trahearne stops. “I wanted to speak with you,” he offers, something hesitant in his voice.

Roza’s mouth dries. “Again?” he asks, and the word comes out hoarse. He frowns at himself, clearing his throat. No, he will not do this again. He will be calm.

“No! No.” Trahearne takes another step forwards, then pauses when Roza draws back once more. “Not like that. I was waiting for you to come back to the party, but you never did. I thought I felt you in the shadows, so… I waited there as well. I didn’t want to spook you out before you were ready.”

Roza’s throat works. “I am not spooked,” he lies.

Trahearne’s expression settles with something like regret. “You are,” he says softly. “And that is my fault. I fear I wasn’t the friend nor the leader you deserved tonight.”

“No.” Roza strides forwards, shaking his head. “Do not say that about yourself. You try your best, despite the circumstances, and…” He reaches a hand out, then drops it. “You’re sad,” he murmurs.

A melancholy smile plays across Trahearne’s features. “Look at you,” he says. “You feel that and immediately stop to acknowledge it. I fear you are a much better leader than I am, Roza.”

Roza takes that in and quickly processes it—his name, Trahearne had used his _name_ —then pushes it aside. “Tell me why you are sad,” he demands.

Trahearne steps towards him cautiously. When that prompts no further reaction, he bridges the gap between them in but a few long strides. “I am sad because in a misguided attempt to be impartial,” he says, “I have hurt my dearest friend. I felt the pain he was in and did nothing to comfort him, only reproached him further.”

Roza’s stomach flips. “Maybe he took his pain out on someone when he shouldn’t have,” he says quietly. He is stuck on _dearest friend_. 

Trahearne extends his hand—slowly—and smoothes down the fabric covering his shoulder. “All the more reason why I should have been kinder,” he replies.

Roza shakes his head, opening his mouth, but Trahearne stops him with a finger on his lips. “Roza, please. You learn and adapt so quickly, so I beg you to heed these words, even if you have outgrown me. It is my duty as marshal to hold you accountable for your actions, yes, but it is also my duty to see to your mental wellbeing. I should not have told you off like a sapling, and for that I apologize.”

Roza’s throat is dry. “You said ‘dearest friend,’” he says, almost a plea, and he does not know how his voice is so even.

Trahearne’s eyes soften. “Ah. I fear I have once again given you the wrong impression. As my _dearest friend_ , Roza, you should know that I care for you… deeply. Please do not doubt that simply because I was foolishly withholding kindness from you. That was a mistake.”

His hand is stroking gently. Roza is… warm inside, although it is not like before with Ysbail. It is a tingling sort of warmth, one that spreads through him and thickens his sap. He takes a steadying breath, then shakes his head.

“You are far too kind to me already, Trahearne.” His gaze flits down. “Much more than I deserve.”

“Oh,” says Trahearne, faintly.

Roza reaches up to remove the hand on his shoulder—who is he, to be soothed by warmth like he is worthy of it?—but Trahearne flips his wrist and catches his hand, and then holds it in an unyielding grip as he stares down into his eyes.

“Who is it,” he says lowly, “who says that you are undeserving of kindness? Tell me.”

Roza’s breath hitches. “Just about everyone,” he replies, and he tries to pretend that his voice does not stretch as thinly as it does.

“Then they are fools, and they are wrong.” Trahearne’s hand is so warm around his. “You are deserving of—of everything. Of love, of warmth, of compassion. And I will never see you wanting for it again, Roza. This I swear.”

Roza’s tongue is stuck in his throat. “Ah,” he clicks.

Their joined hands reach up to his face until a thumb swipes underneath his eye, and he realizes that he is crying. He blinks, calmly, until his vision clears.

“You don’t think I’m wretched?” he asks when he trusts himself to speak clearly.

Trahearne frowns. “Never,” he vows. “I think you are…” He trails off.

“What?” Roza’s voice is a dry croak, traitor that it is.

“Let me show you.” Trahearne’s free hand goes to his waist. His eyes flit down, then immediately jerk back up as he swallows. “By the Pale Tree, your pattern makes it look like…”

Roza glances down at himself. Soft pinkish purple glows from underneath his dress in a familiar contour of his limbs. He does not see anything odd. “What?”

“Nothing.” Trahearne clears his throat. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

As Roza obeys, he adds in an undertone, “And perhaps tell your new friend to dress you in black next time.”

“Alright,” Roza mutters, somewhat confused. Trahearne blinks at him, startled, then gives his head a small shake.

“Now stand up strai… Oh, you already are. Right. You have… good posture, Commander.”

“Thank you.” Roza is a little bemused at the sudden use of his title, but does not mention it. “May we move now, or…?”

“Of course! Yes. Ah…”

Roza steps forwards. Trahearne stumbles, then rights himself. Roza stops, gazing up at him in some concern.

“Do you need to sit down, Marshal?” he asks.

That earns him another slow blink, and, he thinks, a slight flush, although it is hard to tell in the dimness of the room. Trahearne shakes his head, then coughs lightly into his shoulder.

“Let me lead, Commander,” he says right as Roza is about to question his health, and then their chests are pressed together, and there is warmth and firmness everywhere.

Whatever Roza was going to say sizzles into nothing. Trahearne steps forward, and Roza mirrors him, stepping back.

“Well done,” he praises in a low voice. Roza swallows, eyes flicking up to meet his.

His gaze is steady, and half-lidded from the angle—Trahearne is about a head taller than him, but somehow Roza never feels as if he is being stared down.

“Now follow my lead. Side, that’s it, mirror me. Forwards—Ah-ah. Let me go first.”

Roza stumbles, grip tightening as he feels himself step on feet that he swears weren’t there a second ago. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Look at me,” Trahearne orders, and Roza’s gaze startles back up. He thinks he sees a smile, but if he does, it is gone before he can tell.

“Easy,” Trahearne murmurs. “Trust in me, Roza, and you will not stumble. There we go.”

Roza has found a trick: look into his eyes, and suddenly their steps sync up near perfectly. Quite genius, really.

“There we go,” Trahearne repeats, softer, as they move together seamlessly. “Now, what was I saying before this? Ah, yes.”

“… Hm?” Roza hums. He thinks they should stay like this forever, dancing to silent music.

“I was going to tell you what I think of you,” Trahearne says. He is so solid, so close. Roza’s hand over his shoulder splays, stroking gently.

“And what do you think of me, Marshal?” he asks.

“First of all, that you are as graceful a dancer as you are a fighter.” Trahearne smiles. Roza returns the expression unconsciously. “Also… that you call me that sometimes just to tease me, I suspect.”

“Does it work?” Roza’s smile curls into a smirk.

Trahearne chuckles, and he can feel the reverberations against his chest. “Yes. I am… easy to tease, recent events have taught me.”

His tone is sardonic. On impulse, Roza winks, and is rewarded with a surprised parting of lips and a quick, unobtrusive throat-clearing.

“Next,” Trahearne says, and his voice is… thicker. “You are…”

Roza’s fingers curl against the bark of his shoulder. “What?” he murmurs.

“Beautiful.” His voice splits, and something in his expression breaks. “You are truly beautiful, inside and out. And so intelligent, and so strong, and so brave. And I am a _fool_ for you, and there is nothing I can do to help it.”

Roza cannot respond to that. His voice sticks in his throat, truly caught this time, and he simply cannot get it out. So he squeezes their hands and stands on his tiptoes, and presses his forehead against Trahearne’s.

They have stopped dancing, since when exactly Roza does not know. After a long, long moment, he drops back down.

Trahearne is gazing at him with the strangest expression, one that will take him years, even after his death, to decipher. Right now he doesn’t try to, only smiles and rests his head against his marshal’s chest.

Slowly, they begin to sway again, and he closes his eyes.

~*~

“Do you want to know a secret?” Roza asks empty air, when no one is there who can answer him. “I’m in love with you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> canach, seeing past!roza in that dress: by the pale fucking tree tell yourself to put some clothes on  
> kas, who definitely picked it out with nightmode salad in mind: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> ok now i've cheered you up completely! haha . so leave a like tell me what you think and subscribe if you haven't already  
> <3
> 
> [song for this fic!! of Course it's this one](https://youtu.be/n-XQ26KePUQ)


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